The flames licked higher with every chant. Their voices rose like a storm, a chorus of anger and judgment, and Kaelen stood at the center of it all with the mark burning through his skin.
The Rite of Binding was supposed to be glorious. Every child of the Ash Wastes, on their sixteenth year, was brought before the fire spirit to seal their contract. Warriors walked in as youths and came out bound in flame, strong enough to wield destruction, to guard the tribe, to live and die in the empire's wars.
But when Kaelen pressed his palm to the brazier, the spirit recoiled.
The fire leapt back with a scream that no one else seemed to hear. It wasn't the roar of heat and crackling wood but the cry of something old, something alive, tearing itself from him. When the blaze crashed outward, it struck his chest, searing the flesh above his heart in a shape no ember should make. A blackened sigil, jagged and cruel.
The Ashmark.
Now, weeks later, he still felt its heat, even as the desert winds whipped cold against his face.
"Cursed," the high priest had spat that night. "The fire rejects him. No contract. No flame. He carries death inside."
The crowd had chanted it. His people, his family, his own blood. They threw stones as the guards drove him out past the walls. By dawn, Kaelen Veyr was no one. Outcast. Ashmark.
He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, trudging across the cracked earth of the Wastes. Every breath carried grit. The sun bled red across the horizon, throwing long shadows that seemed too sharp, too alive. His canteen was nearly empty, and his boots were falling apart, but he kept walking.
The Ash Wastes had a way of killing the weak quickly. He wasn't weak. Not yet.
A scavenger vulture wheeled overhead, circling lazily. Kaelen scowled.
"Not dead yet," he muttered. His voice was hoarse from dust, but the words gave him comfort. Talking to himself was better than silence. Silence let the whispers in.
He paused on a ridge to catch his breath. Below stretched a sea of black glass, jagged shards rising like broken teeth. They said it had once been a city, burned to nothing in a single heartbeat when the Firebound waged their last war here. The glass still shimmered faintly with heat, though the war had been fought a century ago.
Kaelen's stomach growled. He bit down the hunger. There was nothing left to eat in the Wastes but lizards, roots, or the desperate—and he hadn't sunk that low. Yet.
He turned to climb down the ridge when the whisper came.
"Ashmark…"
Kaelen froze. His hand went instinctively to his chest. The mark burned hot under his tunic, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
"They cast you out," the voice murmured, silk and smoke. "But I will never cast you out."
Kaelen gritted his teeth. "Not now."
"Always now."
He shook his head violently. The whispers had started days after his exile—low at first, barely audible. Now they pressed closer, curling into his thoughts. He'd sworn he wouldn't listen. They weren't real. Just the echo of madness that came with thirst and hunger.
But the mark still burned. And sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he felt something move beneath his skin.
The sound of metal broke him from his spiral. A glint on the glass below—movement. Kaelen crouched low on the ridge.
Raiders.
Three of them, wrapped in leather and bone, faces hidden behind masks carved from scavenged skulls. They dragged a prisoner between them, a girl with her hands bound, her clothes torn and wet with blood. She stumbled, fell, and one raider yanked her upright with a laugh.
Kaelen's first instinct was to back away. Raiders didn't spare witnesses. But then the girl lifted her head, just enough for him to see her eyes.
Not broken. Not pleading. Angry.
Something in Kaelen tightened. He should leave—he knew he should leave. Yet his legs were already moving.
He slid down the ridge, boots skidding across gravel, and landed silent as ash behind a jut of black glass. The raiders hadn't seen him. He pulled the knife from his belt—not much more than a shard of sharpened scrap metal, but it was all he had.
He waited, breath steady, until the last raider passed. Then he moved.
The knife drove into the man's throat before he could cry out. Hot blood spilled over Kaelen's hand. He ripped the blade free, shoved the body aside, and lunged at the second.
The fight was quick, brutal. Kaelen took a club to the ribs, felt something crack, but rage pushed him through. By the time the last raider realized what was happening, his comrades were already dead. He dropped the girl and swung his axe wide.
Kaelen's knife caught the blow, but the strength drove him to his knees. The raider pressed closer, snarling behind his mask.
And then the mark flared.
Kaelen didn't mean to—he didn't even know how—but something inside him opened. Darkness poured from his chest, not like shadow but like the absence of everything. The raider's eyes went wide as his axe dissolved in his hands, crumbling to nothing. The man screamed as his body followed, unraveling into black dust that scattered on the wind.
Kaelen fell back, gasping, the mark searing hot against his heart. The girl stared at him, eyes wide with horror.
The voice purred inside him.
"See? You are not weak. You are chosen. Let me feed, and none shall stand against you."
Kaelen squeezed his eyes shut. "Shut up!"
When he opened them, the girl was still watching. Her expression shifted—not horror now, but something sharper. Curiosity.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
Kaelen's chest burned. He didn't have an answer.